A Picture For A Thousand Words
by Mutant of Time
Summary: Alfred F. Jones was born unable to speak, and Arthur Kirkland born unable to hear teaches him how to express himself through painting. Arthur is diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, and Alfred vows his life to paint one dot each day he lives, because one picture is worth a thousand words, words he was never able to say. One shot, Implied US/UK. Ps. I don't own Hetalia!


**So I don't even know why I wrote this. I don't even like USUK...**

**EDIT: Thank you all SOO MUCH for the reviews, favs, and views! I never expected to get so many with this story! THANK YOU ALL! *vitual hugs for all!***

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Have you heard it said, that a picture is worth 1000 words? 

I think it's worth much more. 

It's worth a lifetime of memories, and you paint the canvas as you live. 

Paint it into a beautiful picture that gives true meaning to your life. 

For me, I chose to give one dot of paint for each day I lived. 

Because my days, they are numbered.

And one dot per day will be just enough to finish the picture.

My days are numbered. I was born unable to speak. It was so hard to express my feelings, and what I was thinking throughout my childhood. I didn't make any attempt to communicate before I met you. My parents, my family, they were forced to ask simple 'yes' or 'no' questions, and I would either shake my head or nod in response. But it was different with you, Arthur.

We went to school together, a school for children who, like me, couldn't speak, or like you, who were deaf. According to a seating chart, we would sit next to eachother. Jones, Kirkland, they go next to eachother when put in alphabetical order. This is why I was around you so much.

Growing up, I was childish, and you were like a gentleman. You were always like one, and I'm still just as childish. We hung around so much, and I suppose we got along because you could say we clicked instantly. You showed me that I could be happy, even if I couldn't speak. It wouldn't have made a difference if I could or not, because you wouldn't have been able to hear me anyways. And if I had been able to speak, I wouldn't have met you.

You taught me how to communicate. It was a unique way of doing so, too. You saw I was depressed, and even though I could write, I wouldn't. I could never find the right words. Even now, it's so hard to write this. Teardrops stain this paper, like paint on a canvas.

Oh, that's right. Painting. You showed me how to skillfully paint, and being able to do that brought out the 'me' that was always trapped inside. That was how I began to communicate. It wasn't like I would paint for anything though. I would mostly paint just for you, because you made me happy. You brought feelings to me that I would never have experienced elsewhere.

Our first date. I brought a painting along with me, just for you. Along with it, a note that read,

"Arthur, no matter what, don't forget about me. Remember that I will always love you. My life, it's a painting I'm creating for you."

A simple, meaningless, love note. But it was special for us, because it signified something.

Sad months later, when you were diagnosed with your terminal brain cancer, I decided that I really would paint my life for you. I owed it to you, since you had brought out a side in me that made me truly unique from everyone else. It made _us_ truly unique. So that day you were diagnosed, I bought a canvas, and a whole lot of paint. I knew what I was going to paint, and I just had to hope you would live long enough to see it finished.

Everyday that passed, you would survive, and I would paint one drop onto the plain white canvas. Almost a different color everyday, to accent the hues in the picture. Against all odds, you survived a year. Then another. But still, the painting was far from finished.

I have no idea how I kept the painting a secret. Maybe it was because I knew you would be happier knowing that I lived for you, only for you, and you lived for me, and not for some stupid painting. But to me, it wasn't stupid, and I'm sure that now if you saw it, you would agree. But don't worry, you will see it. It will be with you soon enough.

Somehow, you lived another 3 months and 19 days after your 2 year survival anniversary. On the day of your death, I added the last dot of green that I would ever paint for you. After that, I painted a black border surrounding the part that I had painted for your life. From then on, I changed the color scheme completely. Gone were the beautiful, bright, and accurate colors. Instead, I started using darker colors, mostly reds, violets, blues, and browns. But never green, the color of your beautiful eyes.

I still painted, but this time, a dot for each day of my life. I still was only 3/4ths of the way done, and I had already come to an older age of 73 years old. I made a vow to finish the painting before I died. I simply would not allow myself to die until it was finished. At the age of 84, I was diagnosed with my own cancer. But still I kept my vow. Painting and painting, a dot for a day, each day, on and on it went. Life soon began to hold no meaning, my only motivation to finish the painting. For you.

97 years old, the doctors were appalled that I had already survived this long. I only needed about 1000 more dots to finish, but my illness was growing more serious. I managed to get through another 2 years for you though. How agonizing it was. I told myself if only I could make it 270 more days, I could finish the painting. That wasn't too much to ask, was it?

I dragged out the days of my life, finally finishing the painting. It was beautiful. A picture of you and me, as children, holding hands. I'm sure it would've been the most beautiful thing you would've set your eyes on.

I made the painting for you, because one picture is worth one thousand words. One thousand words that I could never speak. One thousand things I thought, and I wanted to tell you, but I couldn't, and you wouldn't hear me anyways. But I know you would've tried your best to listen to whatever I would've had to say. Mostly, I would have said 'I love you'. Because even though I wrote it so many times, saying it is worth much more. But what about painting it?

That's what the painting was for. To make up for all the things I wanted to say, all the things I wanted you to hear. Everything that my life was worth. I'm sorry if I wasn't good enough for you. I'm sorry for all of my mistakes. But when I reach you, we will be cured. I will speak, and you will hear. No illness will weigh us down. I love you, Arthur. I really do.

I'm almost gone now. I'm at your grave. I have the painting, and I'm finishing writing this letter right now, as I sit at your grave. I'm going to burn the painting, and this letter, at your grave, and the ashes will drift to wherever you are now. You can put the pieces together, and see how truly maginificant the painting was. When I'm done, I'm going to let go. I will let myself die, right on your grave, and I will come to you. I kept my vow, so I can finally be happy, and let go.

You will always lecture me on how to be a proper gentleman. You will always force your terrible cooking down my throat. But that's okay, because sometimes, you'll do anything for someone you love. If I'm in trouble, you will be there for me. I know that.

And if you're ever in trouble, I will rescue you, and I will be there for you, like any Hero would.


End file.
